Daughter

Pride of my heart, my little princes- what wrong have you done to deserve this? When you were a little girl you played with your doll and waited for me until I came home. You grabbed my hand and would drag me to the kitchen to see what your mama was cooking. You were such a joy in the house. When you grew ready to start school you immediately fell in love with books. You never gave us trouble even on the first day. Then you went to high school and loved the church. What a paragon of obedience and sacrifice you were? Not once did a teacher of yours grumble about your conduct. You even saved some of your pocket money then brought it home. The first Quartz wall clock in the house was a gift you received for exemplary academic achievement. Pride of my heart, my only child you made us proud. You passed your final exams highly and went to that prestigious University-formally Royal college of Nairobi to study Law. That is where you grew into a woman. That is where you met him. After graduation you wrote and said he had proposed. You brought him home. Such a handsome simple man-the son of a University professor himself a diplomat working with the Foreign affairs ministry.

He looked in love with you. You were in love with him obviously from the way you laughed when he made a joke .I had that trust in your choice. I was always on your side. Your mother seemed to distrust him. She said it was her instincts. I stood firm and said it was your happiness she was afraid of, she was afraid of losing you. She was begrudged but I said you deserved to move on. You deserved to be happy.

Finally the sun rose. The day was here. Its soft yellow glowed in your eyes. Tears welled in my eyes. I was the full moon of happiness. Your mother cried too. The Bishop himself presided. The church itself festooned with multi-coloured crepe paper, balloons and classical gospel music was a descended paradise. The flashing cameras from the media intermingled with the flowery voices of the women’s choir and Halleluiahs. What grandiosity of pleasure in the soul of a father’s pride.

The heart and its matters- Were we blind folded?

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The hand of a bag

The handbag is a conspiracy

First it’s indifferent with you

Then intimate with her

It intimidates the secret questions

That rise like phantoms in the mist of mystery

It sags with anticipation

To be filled with her secret fondling and foraging

It is a safe and an armoury

It is a boutique and a beauty parlour

It is a mini-snack bar

So it makes you freeze in its stare

Of leather or designer outfit

It is a statement on the first date

The love detective hired in her veils of impression

So it sucks your uncensored drool

And exposes your a thousand prospects of bed and breakfast

It is the thief of your concealed insalubrity

In the armature light moments spiraling in your outlandish gentrification

Take a moment brother and look again.

It’s not just a handbag.

 

Imagination

Tired and worn out you turn to imagination.Never does it fail to impress It is a monument of cathedrals.Before long it is a secret room of desires of the flesh. A fertile place where you find your barrenness. In its fertility growth is steriled.You see in it misery planted in its travels into the wild. It is a war zone.It is pursued by you and others.It is the gateway to redemption from boredom.Routine makes it agitated.How can it not be?

Brother artist

It is essential brother artist to know the boundaries of your influence.The object of your influences.Is it fame?Then if not to make a man desire to reflect on the universe it is vainglorious.It is a judgement passed not by mere idle thought but reflections of man and the wars in man’s soul.

Pure art is for arts sake.A fallacy. A conspiracy to sterile life. To maim  its creative wombs. To exile custodians of the smile on the Monalisa into daydreaming.The holders of the keys to enlightenment imagine. Rendered conduits of fast-food entertainment.

Artist, do not dream of the mansions and big cars.Even beautiful by eccess women.Seek to fill the tiny spaces of the heart in a broken shell.Be kind to tears and caress misfortunes with empathy.Sojourn in the dust of history.Open your dreams to the confines of guarded ambition Unbridled ambition breeds great expectations.The hemlock of the artist.

Random musings

You are your enemy.When you make commitments you can’t keep. You hear the whispers behind your back and walk around with their ghost.You are your enemy.When you think of the next words to say and you don’t say them.You laugh at a joke with someone else’s face crossing your mind.

You are your enemy.When you sleep angry at someone’s mistake. Remember when you felt you could not shame yourself? You could not ask. Now what is happening to you? You became ignorance.You turned into fear.There again you are your enemy.

You are your enemy when it is raining and you are selfish with your ambrella, even a sorry.When you look not in the eyes. When an old lady stands in the bus and you sit chatting on your phone.Indifferrent. When a house is on fire and you lock your doors binge watching T.V. (You.) You are your enemy when you hit and run. You. When you are not counterintuitive. Who are you to you?

In memory of a man-a poem for my sisters(in memory of our father)

 

Time has blossomed
Into years and the memory
Of tears is fertile
With victorious hope

Hope is ready for harvest my sisters
We are the harvesters whose season has come
And upheaval has poured the honey
On our tongues,
from it’s bitterness rise gratitude for the nine years of stings

He died but God lives
We are God’s children
We are Papa’s harvest
A feast for his granary
Light for his lineage
The living legacy of his humour

An honour for us
A privilege from God

Papa
What a man?
For years we wondered
But what is a man?
If not a gift of good memories living beyond death.

This is a poem of hope. A poem in memory of my father who passed on on 17th January, 2011.This is a poem for my sisters.#Nine years on.

On the slopes of nostalgia

I have bathed in her youth

She who Grace’s through boulders

in the laps of her bed

as she glides over plains and returns not

the unscathed maid,

Smooth mellow shallow and deep

like the first night of love

 

She grows

from shadows of brambles

and tall trees hibernating moist day dreams

whose owner is my memory

 

You can see she rushes down

gentle in swiftness like a marriage proposal

in my barren soul I see

growing with her a madness

of rocks,dead roots and rotting desire

 

Love is dead

in the memory

of boyhood in her youth

in which I bathed.